Run (13 page)

"It will do, Jeeves," she said to no one in particular, waving her hand in what she pretended would look like an aristocratic circle.  Actually, she knew she likely looked like a nutcase with a sprained wrist, but she was having too much fun to care.

"Oh, the cab company," she said, remembering her mission.  She had to call them and get the money over somehow.  Credit card, most likely, as much as she hated the thought of performing such a transaction.  She distrusted computers, though she knew how to use them, and the idea of someone keying in her financial numbers and billing her with no money actually changing real flesh and blood hands always bothered her.

She picked up the phone that sat in the front room, on an end table that her mother had given her when she got married to Nate.

There was no dial tone.  She toggled the switch a few times, hoping to jolt the phone into responsiveness, but her effort came to naught.  Gabe had promised he’d hook it up.  She was early, but she thought for sure he would have done it by now.  She supposed he’d forgotten. 

She looked at her watch.  It read four o’clock, which meant it was five p.m. here.  Gabe would probably be home.  She decided to walk to his house.  It was only a mile or two, and she guessed there was still another good hour of sunlight.  Monday she would look for a car.

She never made it to the front door.

Instead, she found herself laying in bed the next morning, feeling wonderfully well-rested.  She couldn’t remember getting into bed, but chalked it up to jet lag. 

She had planned on spending the first few days getting to know her new town.  Instead, she spent them inside her home, mostly asleep. 

And as she slept, she had the strangest dream.  She dreamt that the cabdriver she’d left Denver with was not the one who took her into Loston.  Because the one that had picked her up had brown hair.

And the one who took her to Loston and then left without taking her money had black hair with a gray streak down the center.

Like a skunk, she thought, and then fell asleep again.

DOM#67A

LOSTON, COLORADO

AD 1999

10:00 AM SATURDAY

John walked down the aisles of the market.  He stopped at a display advertising a buy one get one free special for pork and beans.  He took six cans, throwing them in a cart already filled with canned food.  When Annie had been alive, he’d eaten well.  Not that she cooked all the time, not at all.  They shared everything as equally as possible, and John cooked for her as often or more often than she cooked for him.  He sincerely liked cooking for her, and loved to bring her breakfast in bed.  And since she didn’t like to eat alone, he ate with her.

But when she died, he became a bachelor in a way he’d never been the first time he bore that title: solitary, hanging out with one or two close male friends.

Eating a lot of chili.

The thought almost made him smile.  Almost.  But thoughts of bringing her breakfast in bed led inevitably to thoughts of feeding her in the hospital bed, spooning strained fruits and vegetables into her mouth, clearing off the dribbles, whispering to her that it was okay, and that she’d never been lovelier to him.

It wasn’t even a lie.  He saw her grow more beautiful every day he knew her, even at the end.  Because when her physical body started to wane, her beauty changed into something that came from inside her.  It shone from a pale, shrunken frame like a candle within a Chinese lamp, seeming to glow through her translucent skin.  She was perfectly lovely to him.

He came back to the present with the realization that he was blocking the aisle.

What the hell, he thought, and dumped in two more cans of pork and beans.  You wanna live forever?

He walked the aisles for a few more minutes, just to be there more than to actually search for food.  The store, like school and the time he spent at the bar, had become more than just a function or even a necessity.  It was a proof he was alive.  He lingered at those places, always half-dreading a return to his home because it was so full of Annie’s presence, yet never able to stay away for that same reason.

As he turned the corner around the large advertising display at the end of the aisle (FRITO’S 99 CENTS!), he glanced behind him, to the front of the store.

And saw them.  Kaylie and the Skunk Man.  They each held several bags of groceries, chock full of supplies.  Already through the checkout process, they headed to the front door.  John could see their blue Mustang parked in outside the huge windows that fronted the market.

"Hey!" he shouted, letting go of his cart and sprinting down the aisle.  Kaylie looked back and spotted him.  He saw her tug at the man’s arm.  He looked at her, then up at John, bearing down on them like a smart bomb.

The man’s face paled.  He pushed Kaylie out the door in front of him, and John could see them run to the car.  They hurled their groceries in the back - the convertible top was down - and didn’t bother opening the doors to get in.  They climbed over the side.

John was at the door himself by then, running out the market and waving frantically.  "Hey, I just want to talk to you!" he yelled.  There was no answer beyond that of the car’s speed increasing as it screeched out of the parking lot.  A loaf of bread flew out of the car as it turned, a French roll that flew through the air like a soft mortar and landed in the gutter.

He left it on the ground, going back inside.  There was only one checkout lane open, and he knew the checker.  He’d taught her son some years ago.

"Hey, Mary," he said.  She smiled at him, continuing to help the next customer.  She waved foodstuffs across the infrared scanner, a curious juxtaposition of machinery and organics.

"John, how are you?  What was the yelling all about?"

"The little girl who just left –"

"With her father?"

"I guess so, I don’t really know him."  John moved aside for a moment to let her bag the groceries she had just scanned in.  The woman buying the food - John had seen her around but didn’t know her name - passed an electronic check card through the debit machine screwed in next to the cash register.  "But the girl’s in one of my classes at school."

"Lucky her.  Chuck still talks about you all the time.  Says his other teachers will suck forever in comparison.  That’s a direct quote." 

"Thanks, Mary.  He’s a good kid.  But about the little girl.  Do you know her by any chance?"

"Nope.  They’re new, right?"

"Yeah.  Have you heard where they might have moved in?"

"Sorry, John.  No idea."

John cursed quietly.  Mary handed the lady in line her receipt and the woman took her groceries.  It gave John an idea.  "Do you remember how they paid for their food?"  He hoped it was credit card.  If it was, he could take the number over to Tal Johnson, the sheriff of Loston and a good friend of his.  Tal was hopelessly disconnected from social life in Loston and probably wouldn’t have any idea where the new people in town were living, but he could use the credit card information to get their address, hopefully a current one in Loston.

John needed to talk to Kaylie’s father.  More than he’d ever needed anything before. 

"How
did
they pay, paper or plastic?" said Mary to herself.  She opened the top of the register, reeling through the yellow carbon copies of the receipts.  "Paper.  They paid cash."  She eyed the long string of purchases.  "Looks like they were going on a trip.  Just moved in and already leaving."

DOM#67A

LOSTON, COLORADO

AD 1999

7:00 PM SATURDAY

Outside Loston, a door opened in midair at the foot of a mountain.

Malachi stepped through, entering from a dark, bleak blackness.  He had changed his clothing, dressed in some Eddie Bauer jeans and jacket, Polo shirt, and Timberlands.  The better to blend in with the locals.

A moment later, three others came through the door.  Malachi watched them come in, surveying his small crew.  Usually, when Malachi went on a mission, it was alone.  However, this one was important.  Crucial, in fact.  If they were successful, it would mean the end.  He would take no chances.

The three were garbed similarly to Malachi, with sturdy, warm clothing that was voluminous enough to hide an assortment of weaponry. 

Todd was his second on this mission.  His lean, muscled form stood at ease as he waited for direction.  Malachi knew that the apparent relaxation was merely that: apparent.  At the slightest hint of danger or necessity, Todd would spring into deadly action.  He was a vicious predator, and absolutely faithful to the cause, so was an obvious choice for this important task.

Behind him stood Deirdre.  Her dark skin blended with the inky dark on the other side of the door, making her all but invisible until she stepped into Loston.  She wore black leather pants and a dark brown leather jacket that made it even harder to see her in the night.  It was nearing night in Loston, as well, so stepping through the door made her only marginally easier to see.  Todd had argued against her wardrobe choice, telling her that it would make her stand out in a rural farm community.

Deirdre pointed out that Loston was predominantly white.  A six foot tall black woman with a dangerous light in her eyes and a distinctly predatorial air would stand out no matter what she dressed in.  Malachi had to admit she did look daunting. 

Jenna was the last of the group.  Like Todd and Malachi, she wore comfortable shoes, jeans, T-shirt, and a loose-fitting jacket that hid a number of machines that would make their quest easier.  She was less experienced than the other members of the group, but what she lacked in experience she made up for in zeal.  Besides, she was one of the members of the team that had discovered this place, so she deserved to be on the final mission force.

Malachi looked at them one last time.  They looked good.  They were ready.

He nodded at Todd, who touched a button on what appeared to be his wristwatch.  With a low whisper, the doorway to their time shut behind them, sealing up the naked air and leaving them alone in Loston.

"Now," Malachi said, "this is the most important mission we’ve ever been on.  We know she’s coming sometime today or tomorrow.  I want to find out where she’ll stay, and make sure we’re waiting for her."

"Where do we start?" asked Todd.

"Main Street."

"Anywhere in particular?" asked Jenna.  Deirdre just watched, a trained black panther waiting for the kill command.

"Like always.  We start at the bars."

The others nodded and Malachi turned to the glow that marked the nearby limits of Loston.

***

The game never changed.  Neither did the outcome.  Gabe would have felt bad for his friend, but figured that if someone
had
to lose, it might as well not be him.

He reracked the balls for the third time.  Actually, John was playing pool well tonight, much better than he had yesterday after school, thought the coach.  The first game had been close.  The second game, John got his clock cleaned when Gabe put away five balls in one round.  But John came back and won the third round, an unusual occurrence.  It probably had something to do with his choice of conversation, which for some indefinable reason was making Gabe very nervous.  Every time John mentioned this guy, this stranger, Gabe’s skin started to crawl.  He felt like someone was scratching his brain with long fingernails, raking furrows through his mind.

Gabe shook himself mentally, trying to shake loose of the rush of negative feelings this line of conversation was evoking in him.  It was no use.  The anxious – almost painful – feeling persisted, no matter what he did.  Even picturing his daughter’s face – serene, quiet and peaceful as she had been when he buried her – did no good.  Usually that remembrance was enough to calm him no matter what.  But tonight it did no good.  Nor did the fact that he owed John his life.  For a moment, the past disappeared and all that was left in the coach was a searing, burning hatred. 

"I swear, Gabe," the computer teacher was saying, "I’ve seen this guy –"

"Two other times in the past thirty years and he hasn’t changed, yadda, yadda, yadda.  I heard you.  It’s your turn to break."

John broke - badly, the ten and the fourteen hung right on the lips of the far corner pockets, but neither fell - and then kept talking.

"The second time I saw him he got blown up, Gabe.  Not shot, not hit on the head with a brick, not even get his head cut off. 
Blown up.
"

Gabe had hoped that the game would distract John, but his friend was still doggedly pursuing the line of conversation he had begun some forty minutes before.  Gabe had tried to turn him away from the topic several times, but to no avail.  The coach lined up his next shot, but had trouble focusing on the cue ball.  His vision swam before him, momentarily clouding before returning to normal.  He realized he was holding so tight to the cue stick that his fingers had gone numb.

He couldn’t imagine why he was so nervous.  So uncomfortable and angry.

So afraid.

"So how could I have seen that?" continued John.

"It’s your imagination, bro.  Listen, Franny’s coming in tomorrow and I don’t want her thinking you’re a lunatic.  Forget about this stuff."

Gabe lined up to put away the fourteen.  It was an easy shot, one he should have been able to make blindfolded, shooting with his feet and using a warped stick.  He missed, though. 

John took the next shot, and Gabe thought perhaps his friend would let it go.  He desperately wanted him to.  Every time John mentioned this guy, this "Skunk Man" as he called him, Gabe wanted to go a little crazy.  That scared him.  In spite of his reputation as a loud, murderous coach, Gabe was about as pacifistic as anyone he knew.  Sure, he spent some time hunting, but everyone in the town did.  Other than that, though, the only time he had ever felt serious anger or rage was the morning Ruth died.  And that had dwindled and disappeared when he buried her. 

But the feelings that rose with every mention of the Skunk Man were anything but peace-loving.  Gabe fought down urges of violence; of strange
other
ness that tried to persuade him to rip, to tear, to rend.